Fathers, Brothers, Friends and Lovers
by Sunflowers In Moscow
Summary: GerIta / / "Why did that have to be the last thing he said to him? Perhaps his last words to the dear man who he – loved, odd how he could only say it now, in this eleventh hour – had to be so cutting and harsh. And they were lies; those horrid words had been the epitome of lies." Germany loses Veneziano, and this time he might not be able to apologise. / / Rewrite of FTLTB.


**_I don't own Hetalia_**

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He ran through the desolate wasteland blanketed with corpses of royal blue. His ragged breaths seemed to echo from everywhere, his heavy footsteps like muted drumbeats. Dried out twigs and brittle leaves crunched and crumbled beneath his feet, announcing his presence only to the ones who were no longer able to hear him.

He could hear the distant shouts of the men under his command, asking him to slow and come back as they weren't sure if the enemy had left yet, if it was safe for him to be sprinting alone and mostly defenceless against an army of thousands.

He didn't care.

If Veneziano was dead, he'd fall on the allies' doorstep with his hands above his head.

It would be all his fault anyway.

He reluctantly looked over the empty faces of the long since departed, every unknown and unrecognisable face a relief – it wasn't him, _Gott_, it wasn't him. Broken and abandoned, the men lay with their weapons; weapons that might as well have been children's toys, they did so little good against the strength of the mighty Reich. Forced to combat a side they had been a member of, an ally of not months ago.

The smell was turning his stomach, the stench of iron – blood – rife in the air, destined to become worse as the day grew older and the heat rose. The repulsive scent would turn sickening and make even the most hardened of men return their breakfast to the air.

He deliberately ignored it when he accidentally stood in a puddle – if it could be called that; wasn't muddy water supposed to be brown? Not the colour of _wine_…

The ground crested and he stood on the slight rise, looked around him frantically. Unbeknownst to him, the name of the man he was desperately seeking began to escape his lips.

He picked a random direction – every way looked the same, identical in its shared horror – how could death be so endless? Surely it had to end, it had to, nothing could be so vast – and took off.

He jumped over a ragged piece of something he couldn't let himself think of, lest he allow the situation to reach him. He had to keep his focus, or lose all semblance of control.

The further he went, the larger the bodies of water containing bodies of fathers, brothers, friends and lovers. Splintered pieces of trees resembled the pieces of other living things littered the land, and as the distance between himself and his men increased, so did his guilt.

Why did that have to be the last thing he said to him? Perhaps his last words to the dear man who he – _loved_, odd how he could only say it _now_, in this eleventh hour – had to be so cutting and harsh. And they were lies; those horrid words had been the epitome of lies.

He had said he found the other man pathetic – never. Veneziano was the furthest thing from it, so open and in his own unique way, brave. He was never and would never (because he was still alive – Germany had to believe that, or he would go insane) be a soldier, but he was a fighter. He could stand up to the man that tried to mould him into a militaristic, useful ally without as much as a flinch. He could stand up to the nation that others thought to be the embodiment of fear with a smile and a beckon to have some fun. He let Germany believe that there was more to life than pulling a trigger and thrusting a blade. That he could be content doing something other than spilling the blood of his conquests.

He had said that he found him useless – another lie. Only in battle did Veneziano have no purpose. He shouldn't have to fight anyone, let alone the man who he had proclaimed to be his best friend. Germany's heart had ached when Veneziano had abandoned him, but yet he could find no fault in it. After what the blond had said and done to the small brunet, he deserved whatever bad fortune he was delivered.

He prayed to a God he didn't believe in for a miracle that was unlikely to come.

His religious mutterings of Veneziano's name slowly grew into synch with the thud of his army boots on the dirt, as his heart grew heavier. His hope began to dwindle, hope he tried clung to with a metallic grip because he needed it, how he needed it.

He ran past a tall piece of wood, stripped of leaves, of branches, even of bark. It was a smooth, white pole, a salute to the viciousness of war and a blunt reminder of the terror of it, the power and the ultimate authority of death.

"Vene, Vene, Vene, Vene…" He finally heard his frightened words, but did nothing to stop it. It kept him from sinking, from drowning. From forgetting his purpose – the only one he had left, that had survived the tsunami of his feverish worries.

He allowed them, in fact, to get louder, to act as a beacon, an appeal for any remainder of life rotting in this hell to enlighten him to its existence so he could pray it was Veneziano.

He ran past another body, this one face down with a bloody piece of white cloth draped over it. His eyes scanned the horizon, and he stopped abruptly, cupping his mouth, and shouted.

"Veneziano! _Bitte_!"

He waited and waited. Nothing. His gloved hands held his face as his sense of location was lost in the vacuum of sheer nothingness encompassing him. Even the wind could not be heard. His hands slid down his face, smearing dirt and sweat over the skin, until his tired and glistening eyes were visible.

Suddenly, a sound broke his depression, and he spun, looking for the source. He heard it again, and his heart was filled with a sort of painful longing.

_Let it be, mein Gott, let it be._

He whispered, reverently, fearfully. "Vene?"

A loud sob emanated from nearby, and his sight snapped to the body he had past not seconds ago, and _how could he not have known?_

Before he knew it, he was beside the man whose shoulders were shaking, and breaths coming extremely unsteadily. The orange hair was slightly dulled by smoke and dust, but still recognisable; that _verdammt_ lively curl springing up in the air even as its owner was dying.

Carefully, he rolled him over; the stained white flag -

(because that's what it was, so obvious, how could he not have noticed! His pity, and his anger, multiplied as he knew the plea for mercy and signal of surrender had been ignored by his own men who proceeded with massacring every living thing, regardless of the circumstances)

- covering his body eerily, like a shroud. Amber eyes that were for the first time in so long wide open met his own icy blues, and they crinkled in exhausted relief.

"_G-Germania_…" The voice was broken and hoarse, and it was only then that Germany noticed the bloody stain on the front of the smaller man's uniform, as well as the two torn small holes in the stomach area.

His teeth gritted in anger and denial. _No_, he couldn't lose Veneziano.

"Shh. I'm here Vene. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry." His voice cracked at the end, the honesty of his remorse evident in his voice.

Veneziano shook his head, which was now in Germany's hands. "N-No, n-not your fault… mine… _stupido_…"

"_Nein_." Germany shook the head in his grasp very gently to get his point through without hurting him. "You're not stupid, Veneziano. You never were. I just kept trying to make you something you are not. You shouldn't even _be _here…"

"_Germania_ t-thought I'm pathet-tic, but, I-I'm _n-n-not_, r-right? N-not anym-more. H-had to show _G-Germania_..."

Only his hardened and trustworthy shell kept Germany from weeping. Veneziano had done all this, come into a futile fight where the outcome had already been determined to prove him wrong. _Gott_, it really was all his fault. But Veneziano seemed to be waiting for an answer. He swallowed the lump in his windpipe and answered.

"_Nein_, Vene, you're not. You never were!" The last words grew louder, but Veneziano's forehead – covered in dirt and sweat and blood, the by-products of the present situation – creased.

His voice was quieter, "but _Germania_ s-said-"

"I lied! Don't you get it, Veneziano? I lied to you! You aren't those things, you aren't useless, you aren't pathetic! I never thought you were."

The Italian's eyes grew watery. "But, w-why?"

A sigh escaped Germany's mouth, before his forehead lowered to be pressed against the smaller man's. Their noses touched as they breathed, and both revelled in the proximity. Germany cherished, and Veneziano didn't dare to hope.

With all the softness of a cornflower petal, Germany's lips brushed the dry ones of his companion. Veneziano jumped in shock and hissed at the pain that flashed through his abdomen at the movement. Germany moved back in alarm, but Veneziano bit out a 'no' and his limp cold hand curled around Germany's head before it guided him back down.

He wouldn't let the taller man do this. He wouldn't let him just _leave_; this was a chance that would never arise again, and Veneziano wasn't going to waste it. He loved _Germania _so much, and he wouldn't let his cowardly ways stop him from showing him.

Their lips collided once more, this time much less gently. Veneziano's face heated, but he didn't let go, instead choosing to hold onto Germany with as much strength as he could. The man tasted like beer, but even while he wasn't fond of that particular alcohol, on Germany it seemed so right.

As did kissing him, for that matter. It was so much better than he had imagined, and the warmth that spread through his veins at Germany's touch was intoxicating. His injuries were forgotten and the pain smothered in the new passion they were quickly discovering.

In Germany, the emotions were reciprocated. His heartbreak at trying to face the fact Veneziano could be dead was vanquished by the wounded lover he cradled in his arms, and his relief at not having to hide his love for the brunet any longer.

"_Ludwig_..." Veneziano whispered when they separated for an instant, before their mouths touched again.

"_Feliciano..." _Germany murmured when they finally parted and Veneziano buried his face in the strong blond's neck.

They would face the consequences of the war – the pain and the death and the loss and the hatred and the vengeance and the revolting essence of corrupted, forgotten life – of being on different sides, of loving each other in the place where love does not reach. Where love is not supposed to reach. They would do all this and more, and in return, their feelings would never wane.

But to reach the destination, the first step had to be taken.

Some bandages had to be obtained and the bullets in Veneziano's body needed to be pulled out before they poisoned and killed him.

Germany would not lose him again.

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**REWRITE! **

**I just couldn't leave this any longer - the urge to just completely revamp it was too much, and this is the result. **

**You see, I regularly look over my past fics to make sure they are up to standard, and if they are just so bad, I fix them. The past incarnation of this fic was killing me - OOC, so much OOC!**

**There. I feel much better.**

**Hope this is well received - it's based off a fanart on deviantart called 'APH: Soldier Side'. If you really want to feel the angst, I'd ****highly recommend taking a look, and leaving a comment there. virus-AC74 did a fantastic job.**

**I love Ludwig x Feliciano - definitely one of my OTPs!**

**I _might _leave up the old one...**

**Reviews very welcome, appreciated and NEEDED. I really want feedback on this new version!**


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